


Until October

by Inky



Series: Inky's Yeehaw AU Tributes [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 22:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15672693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inky/pseuds/Inky
Summary: Soon, the cold of winter will be upon them. Tight funds will mean a very trim Christmas and moving to fulltime hours at the club. The cold will make Shiro ache in his joints. But for now, at the tail end of the summer heat, Keith wants to enjoy it while he can.





	Until October

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buffshiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffshiro/gifts).



> (strums guitar @ [tofu](https://twitter.com/buffshiro)) i love you bitch (strums guitar again) i ain't ever gonna stop lovin you,
> 
> bitch
> 
> yet another forbidden yeehaw angst fic. i love the taste of cowboy tears
> 
> \--[elle](https://twitter.com/inkweaving)

“I just don’t understand why you won’t go get your hair cut by someone who actually _knows_ what they’re doing, that’s all.”

“You’re doin’ it just fine. It’s ten bucks we don’t have to spend.”

“I love you, Keith, but this is silly. I’ll _pay_ for you to get it done right.”

“Nah. Ten bucks could go towards feed. Or somethin’ nice for you. One of your fancy salon haircuts, maybe.”

Keith smiles as he feels Shiro give his hair a faint tug. _Hey, you,_ that tug says. He watches two-inch hair clippings fall down the faded, bleach-stained towel he wears around his shoulders and resists the urge to scratch his nose.

“You’re going to look like you’ve been through a blender,” Shiro murmurs, his voice dripping honey and warmth. Keith feels the fond, appreciative press of Shiro’s lips on the crown of his head. He shifts, tapping the underside of the towel so more hair flutters down to the kitchen floor. There’s a clattering sound as Shiro sets the scissors aside in the plastic basket. He rummages, and a moment later electric clippers come to life with a dull buzz. Keith closes his eyes as Shiro carefully cleans up the edges of his hairline.

Outside, the hens cluck in the front yard as they peck in the dirt. They can hear a very distant train’s horn as it rumbles through town, and the clanging of a cowbell. A hummingbird comes to the feeder hanging in the window, hovering there for a moment before it lands on the perch and tastes the sugar water Shiro made this morning.

(Actually, Keith made it so they wouldn’t end up with their home burned to the ground, but Keith lets his fiancé take the credit.)

(Small compromises.)

 “It feels so good when you do that,” Keith groans, letting Shiro roll his head forward. “I’m gettin’ goosebumps.”

“Do you think it’s an ASMR thing?” Shiro asks. Keith hums.

“Nah... I just like your hands. Like your... buzzin’... or... when’ya... mm... yeah...”

Shiro rumbles out a laugh behind him as Keith mumbles incoherently, his eyes closed and his neck limp. It’s a loss when Shiro finishes, but he makes up for it by tipping Keith’s head back and giving him a slow, upside-down kiss.

“Well... your hair sure is... cut,” Shiro says when he pulls away. He grimaces. “Oh, baby, I’m _really_ not good at this.”

“You’re perfect,” Keith insists, and that’s all he really has to say. Shiro huffs and untucks the towel from the back of the kitchen chair so he can pull it off of Keith’s shoulders and shake it out onto the floor. Shirtless, Keith brushes the little bits of hair off his shoulders until Shiro comes up behind him with a cool, wet washcloth to get the rest off.

“It might be a little harder to pull it back into a ponytail,” Shiro muses. Keith shuts his eyes as he feels Shiro’s prosthetic fingers in his hair, stroking it and trying to pull some of it back into a ponytail. “It’ll be small, and you might need a headband.”

“It’ll grow back an’ then you can tug it all you want,” Keith promises. He reaches up to feel the back of his head. There’s a lot less hair on his neck, now—a lot less to be plastered there with sweat during afternoon chores. It’s still a mullet, though, just the way he likes it. “Thanks, darlin’.”

“Of course.”

As Shiro cleans off the seat of the dining chair, Keith leaves the kitchen to retrieve the broom from the supply closet. Whistling to himself, he pulls the door open and rummages around.

“Honey?” Shiro calls. Keith pops his head back out, trying to wrestle the broom free from the mop bucket as he does.

 “Urgh... yeah? What’s up?”

“Can you bring me my phone?”

“Where is it?”

“On the table, on my side of the bed.”

“Sure, inna minute.”

Keith throws up his hands in defeat, unable to pry the broom loose, and flashes it the middle finger for good measure. Leaving the disaster of a supply closet behind, he goes to the bedroom and pauses at his dresser to pull on a plaid flannel. As he buttons it from the top down, he looks around and spots the cord for Shiro’s phone charger sticking out of the drawer. He opens it and finds Shiro's phone tucked underneath a calorie journal. And... two protein bar wrappers. Keith rolls his eyes, grabs the phone and the wrappers (and any residual crumbs leftover), and pads back out into the hallway. He gives the handle of the broom one last powerful yank and pulls it free as he passes.

“Shiro, you left your crud in the drawers again,” Keith calls down the hall. When he re-enters the kitchen, he finds Shiro trying to push the clumps of hair on the floor into a pile with his foot. He can’t help but let out a laugh. “You really did cut off a whole lot, how am I gonna keep warm in the winter, huh?”

“It’s September!” Shiro exclaims, but his lips curl and he’s laughing too, holding his arms out in front of him and jerking out of the way as Keith playfully tries to poke his belly with the end of the broomstick.

“Y’want a baldy? Y’wanna kiss a bald man? Huh? _Huh?_ ”

_“Keith!”_

Shiro bats the broomstick away and Keith comes closer, fencing Shiro into the corner of the counter and forcing him to hoist himself up onto it. Keith crowds into his space, inserting himself between Shiro’s legs and placing the broomstick aside so he can grab Shiro’s face and pull him down for a kiss.

“Hmm,” Shiro hums, content and happy as he settles his hands on Keith’s hips. When he pulls away, there’s a dreamy smile on his face as he rubs his thumbs into Keith's hip bones. “You could be bald. I wouldn’t mind.”

“You could marry a man without his mullet? I call horse shit.”

“I’m serious!” Shiro giggles. He brings Keith’s head in to press a kiss to the top of his hair. “I’d love you just the same. You’d still be my baby.”

“Mm...”

“I can’t believe you don’t trust me. You love a man covered in scars and missing an entire arm. A _stripper_ , Keith.”

“Everything you just listed is a bonus for me,” Keith says, and it’s the truth. That makes Shiro snap his mouth shut, a special sparkle in his eye as he smiles.

“Every day I think I get a little more charmed by you.”

Keith grins, leaning in to kiss Shiro’s clavicle, “I’m only bein’ honest.”

He pulls away from Shiro and hands him his phone (and his protein bar wrappers). It’s quick work to tidy up the kitchen; Keith sweeps up the hair on the floor and Shiro takes care of the few dishes left in the sink. Outside, a couple hummingbirds fight over the same flower perch on the feeder and Shiro laughs at them. Keith smiles to himself, always happy to hear that melodious laughter.

Soon, the cold of winter will be upon them. Tight funds will mean a very trim Christmas and moving to fulltime hours at the club. The cold will make Shiro ache in his joints. But for now, at the tail end of the summer heat, Keith wants to enjoy it while he can.

“Hey, Keith?”

“Mm?”

Keith kneels on the kitchen floor, gathering the clumps of hair into a dustpan. He pauses so he can look up at Shiro, who stands over him with his arms crossed.

“I hate to bring it up, but we should talk about the shed and getting ready for winter.”

Keith groans.

“Ah no, Shiro, this again? I told you, it’s fine.”

Keith gets to his feet, dustpan in hand and a look on his face.

“It’s hotter’n hell out there, y’want me to die of a heat stroke? That shed’s like an inferno until October.”

“No, but you really need to get it organized before winter. I don’t even like it when you go in there to get the tractor out, and lately you've been putting more and more stuff in there. There’re dangerous things in there, sharp things... stuff that could hurt you, and I'm pretty sure half the wood is rotted out,” Shiro lists off. Keith suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “I know I’m not the tidiest person either, but at least organize it enough so I’m not so worried.”

“You done with your lecture?”

Shiro’s brows furrow and he puts his hands up as Keith brushes past him to empty the dustpan in the trash.

“I’m not _lecturing_ you, I’m just worried about it, okay?”

“The shed’s been that messy since before you even came along. At this point, I think all that shit hangin’ in the rafters just rusted all together. It ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Keith...”

“You’ve been ridin’ my ass about this shed thing for weeks. I barely even go in there. You had _never_ been in there, until a few weeks ago,” Keith says. He raises his voice a little as he shrugs. “It’s not that bad, I only go in there when I need to use the old tractor or put away a buzz saw. It’s fine, Shiro.”

Shiro just makes a face at Keith, looking utterly disappointed and perhaps a little offended. Keith stares right back at him, a hand on his hip.

“Okay. Fine. I’m just saying, I think it’s dangerous, and I don’t want to see you get hurt,” Shiro says, deadly quiet. “That’s all. I wasn’t trying to make a fight out of this with you, so I don’t know why you’re getting angry with me.”

“I’m not angry with you,” Keith sighs. He scratches at the back of his head and rubs his neck. “Look, fine. I’ll see if I can’t clean up a li’l bit out there, alright?”

Shiro tips his head at Keith, his lips still pursed. He finally gives him a shrug.

“Good. Thanks. I’m gonna lie down for a bit before work.”

Keith frowns, watching as Shiro brushes coolly past him and heads down the hall to their bedroom. When he hears the door quietly click shut, he lifts a hand to rub at his brow. That could’ve gone a lot better. He probably could’ve handled that better.

He definitely could’ve.

Keith worries his lip between his teeth and peeks his head around the corner, looking down the hall at the closed bedroom door. He should probably apologize... but maybe it’d be best for now to keep his distance. Take action, rather than try to explain.

With a sigh, Keith turns around and leaves the house, wincing as soon as the thick, stuffy, end-of-summer heat hits him like a brick wall. He steps down the front porch and makes his way to the way back, where the shed is located just on the other side of the barn. He slides the rusty doors open with a loud, sustained _creeeak_ and peers into the dark, dusty space.

It really is messy in here.

Keith kicks at piles of dust, and he’s sure he sees rat poop on the floor in the corner. He looks up, his eyes tracing buzz saws, steel frames, beams, and other sharp pieces of metal just dangling haphazardly from hooks in the ceiling. There’s a barrel of sharpened fence posts and at least a dozen things on the verge of falling off the rafters—alright, it really _is_ bad in here.

“Ah, fuck,” Keith whispers to himself. He’s already sweating. He reaches into his pocket to retrieve his usual red hair tie, which he uses to pull his hair up into a ponytail. Like Shiro warned, it’s small, but it gets the job done. Keith rolls up his sleeves and maneuvers his way to the back of the shed, careful not to accidentally hip-check anything. As he does, the fabric of his jeans catches on a nail and he jerks to a stop as he hears the threads threatening to rip. Groaning, "Shit, c'mon, I can't afford a new pair right now. Get _off_."

Keith carefully unhooks himself from the nail and hitches up his leg to check for damage. Nothing; maybe a snagged thread, but nothing too serious. Grumbling, he reaches into his back pocket to get his phone out, not wanting to risk putting any more cracks on the screen. If he can't afford jeans, he can't afford a new phone.

Looking around, Keith settles his phone on the seat of the old tractor, leaning against it as he does. The old thing creaks dangerously, rusty metal grinding in protest until Keith lets up on the pressure. With his phone out of the way, Keith shuffles further and further back into the darkness of the shed.

Where is he even supposed to start with this?

In the way back are two 5-gallon buckets filled with old, dusty grey dirt that had probably been used at one point for tomato plants. Keith ducks under some hanging tools to get to them, crouching low and looking inside. They’re covered in spider webs and dust. Damn. He really should’ve grabbed some gloves. With a sigh, he straightens a little and turns, squinting towards the front of the shed and trying to spot a plastic bin or something where he usually keeps those sorts of things. He starts picking his way forward.

There’s a tickle at the back of his neck where his hair no longer reaches and a full-body shiver goes through him at the thought of a spider crawling down his back.

Cursing loudly, he jerks his arm up and smacks his knuckles against something sharp hanging from the ceiling. It slices through his skin like it’s paper and he barks out a yell of pain, jerking his hand towards him and shuffling away from it. Looking up, he sees the culprit; a very rusty, old sawblade.

“Shit, god _damnit_ —“ Keith spits. The cut has gotten him quite deep, deep enough for blood to start trickling down his right arm and fingertips. He hurries to get to the closest bit of light still leaking into the shed so he can check the damage. As he goes, he nearly curses again at the thought of Shiro’s smug _I told you so_. Still cradling his injured hand to his chest, Keith shuffles up behind the tractor and tries to squeeze past a wooden beam holding up the rafters.

He doesn’t have time to react as his knee brushes past it and takes off a chunk of rotting wood with it. There’s a monstrous creak from above him and he looks up sharply just as the wood gives a loud _crunch_. The beam gives way to years of disrepair and Keith yelps as dozens of pieces of rusting equipment hitch forward and comes toward him in an avalanche of metal. All he has time to do is put his arms up to defend his face.

Metal crashes into him with enough force to send him backwards. He slams the back of his head on a hard edge of the tractor behind him and pain explodes from his neck, before everything promptly goes black.

Keith’s eyes open again to silence and darkness. He’s confused for a moment, unable to move hardly an inch with the cold weight pressing in all around him. He tries to sit up and is met with an intense, searing pain from his right shoulder. He cries out, almost going hoarse with it, and slumps to the floor of the shed.

Quiet, guttural noises bubbles up from his throat in the aftershock of his pain. It’s so dark that he can’t see, but something warm and wet is spreading across his shoulder, soaking into his shirt. He tries to move his right arm again and is only met with white-hot pain that makes his teeth clench so tight that they creak in protest against his gums.

He pants, harsh and erratic. He’s not sure if he can feel his right arm properly; he tries to move his fingers and they give a weak twitch. Somewhere under the heap of metal he’s buried under, he tries to move his hips. The sound of more sliding metal makes him still, panic settling over him as the heap shifts. Something sharp and heavy comes to rest at his ankle, threatening to cut off circulation.

“C’mon... c’mon...” Keith whispers to himself. He carefully turns his head and spits out bits of rust that has gotten into his mouth. He squeezes his stinging eyes shut and tries to force tears out of them to get rid of the grit, but nothing works. He lets out a wheezing cough from all the dust, and as his head jerks he feels a wet, splashing sensation against his hair. He stills again, suddenly aware that there’s a puddle of blood forming underneath him.

He thinks of the phone he left sitting on the tractor seat and sucks in a breath to bellow out a curse, his left hand clenching into a fist. When he goes quiet again, he takes a deep, rattling breath and tries to calm himself down. He feels a tickle of panic in the back of his head, some childhood trauma involving a housefire threatening to taunt him. He firmly shoves it back down and focuses on the now.

First... assess the situation.

He shifts as carefully as he can and starts trying to move his limbs one by one. He finds that his left foot is relatively loose; he bends his leg at the knee and moves it a little, sliding it across the floor of the shed. His right leg is still pinned, the metal cutting painfully into his ankle. He tries to shift his foot, wiggling his toes and finding out quickly that they’re already going numb. He swallows and starts coughing again, hacking up dust.

It takes some careful wiggling, but he manages to slip his right foot out from underneath the metal and almost cries with relief as the blood rushes back into it. Pinpricks rush up his leg like a static going through his body and he freezes, gritting his teeth through it until it passes.

He’s able to move both his legs, but his upper body is still pinned. Moving as carefully as he can, he tries to lift his head in the darkness and is shocked by the wave of dizziness that comes over him. His heartrate picks up and he wonders just how badly he’s bleeding. He doesn’t even know where he’s bleeding from, just that there’s a lot of it. His heart hammers against his chest; how much blood is he losing?!

Somewhere above him he hears the ringtone of his phone going off. He lets his head fall back, once more splashing into the puddle beneath him. He helplessly listens to his phone go to voicemail. There’s a long pause and the ringing starts up again. Once more, it goes to voicemail.

Keith shuts his eyes. Controlling his breathing is becoming a monumental task as fear grips him tight and refuses to let him go. Pain is blossoming out slowly from the back of his head, throbbing behind his eyeballs.

His phone goes off again.

Keith runs his tongue over his lips, wetting them and tasting metal and dust. It makes him cough and wheeze all over again, each jerk of his chest sending pain up his right shoulder.

Somewhere, there’s a shuffling sound and metal starts shifting again. There’s a ringing in his ears and one of the fingers on his right hand gives a feeble twitch. He looks up and hears a frantic metallic crashing sound. The noise is loud, but it comes in booming, distant echoes. His vision swims, and the last thing he sees is the sheet of metal directly over his face lifting into the air. Standing over him is a familiar face, twisted in wide-eyed, crazed fear, haloed in light.

-*-

Keith awakens again in a daze, eyes creaking open. He feels detached from his own body and sluggish, like there’s pudding running through his veins. With a soft groan, he blinks a few times and lets out a cough that makes his right shoulder ache. There's a faint, rhythmic beeping sound to his left that he recognizes as a hospital monitor. _Oh, no._

They can't afford this.

“Keith?”

His eyelashes flutter and he turns his head minimally to see Shiro. He’s sitting in a chair at Keith’s bedside. He’s got a white-knuckle grip on the armrest, his entire body taut and tensed like a bowstring, like he’s about to jump out of it and run a mile around Keith’s bed. His jaw is set tight, a pinched expression on his face, and his eyes... oh.

He’s livid.

“...I—“

“Don’t.”

“Honey—“

“Stop talking.”

Keith shuts his mouth with a click of his teeth and lays his head back down. He stares up at the ceiling. It’s dark, and he wonders if it’s late at night. If Shiro is missing his shift at work for this.

“This is exactly... this is the _exact_ scenario I was worried about. This, right here.”

Keith shuts his eyes, fully accepting the verbal lashing. Shiro’s voice sounds strained, like he’s holding back from screaming at him.

“You have. No. Clue. What you put me through. I warned you about that shed and you ignored me, and you kept putting shit in there and letting it get worse and worse. It’s a miracle this didn’t happen sooner. It’s a miracle I was still _home_ , Keith.”

“I—“ Keith starts, his voice wavering.

“Don’t. Don’t even start. I can barely even look at you right now, and if you don’t shut up and listen, I’m going to lose it.”

Once again Keith snaps his mouth shut.

“You have a moderate concussion, and they had to staple the back of your head shut and stitch up a bad wound on your shoulder. You've gotten at least a dozen shots; one of them is to prevent tetanus,” Shiro lists off. His voice is cold and robotic, like he’s reading a grocery list. “You didn't lose too much blood. But it still... it looked like a lot. It spread across the floor of the shed. I saw all of it.”

Keith winces and he fights the tightening in his throat, looking firmly out the window and trying to count to ten.

“It took almost a half hour for the ambulance _and_ the fire department to get all the way to our house. They made me keep the stake in your shoulder. In case it was the only thing keeping you from bleeding out. You have no idea how serious this was, Keith.”

Keith’s left hand balls into a fist at his side.

“I couldn’t do anything.”

When Keith blinks, he feels a hot tear run down the side of his face and settle in the shell of his ear. It doesn’t occur to him to be embarrassed, but out of force of habit, he keeps his head faced away from Shiro.

“That’s why I wanted you to organize that shed before. Because of exactly what happened. I guess even _I_ underestimated how bad it was, so I don’t want you going in there ever again. I don’t want you near it. Don’t touch it. We’ll get you a new stupid tractor and buy some rusty buzzsaw blades you don’t even fucking need from a garage sale after we recover financially from this, if we _ever_ do. I don’t care. Don’t ever go in there again. It’s too late to clean it, _obviously_.”

He spits out the last part, pure venom. It’s the most upset Keith has ever seen or heard him.

“I hate myself for letting you go in there alone. I should’ve _been_ there.”

That draws Keith’s attention. He rolls his head to look back at Shiro. His chin is propped up on his fist and he’s staring hard out the window, expression ablaze and his body still rigid. His eyes are dry as a bone, but something dangerous glimmers in his gaze. Keith’s lips pinch tight together and he feels his throat lurch. More tears start to form in his eyes and he rests his cheek against the pillow as he lets them. He doesn’t turn away from Shiro, but he compulsively rubs a section of his sheets between his thumb and forefinger.

“M’sorry,” he whispers. His tears soak the pillow beneath his face and drip down the edge of his nose and off the bridge. Shiro finally spares him a glance, but the sight of Keith’s tears doesn’t soften the ice in his eyes. He only seems to get angrier.

“You’re sorry? It’s a little late for that, Keith.”

Keith’s breath catches and he stares at Shiro for a long moment, searching for softness and warmth in his hard gaze. He finds none and it yanks him back to a sadder time, it brings him back to his own self-inflicted isolation and with a start, he realizes he can’t go back there. Not again. Perhaps it’s this sudden string of thoughts or the painkillers running through his system, but it brings a fresh wave of tears and a hiccup from the back of his throat.

“Please... don’t leave me.”

It’s so quiet, he almost mouths it. Through his tears, he sees the hard shell of Shiro’s face break and he squeezes his eyes shut tight before he can see Shiro moving closer, leaning over him. He feels Shiro’s flesh hand settle over his own. The ridge of his engagement ring. It drags something out of Keith, something close to a sob but not quite. His chest hurts.

“...I’m not—what? Keith, I’m not going to leave you over _this_ ,” Shiro says, his voice incredulous. Keith takes in a shallow breath and weeps. Shiro’s voice is soothing, “What? Are you kidding? I’m mad at you, but I’m not...”

He falls into silence and Keith just cries.

“I was scared,” Keith croaks, again so quiet it can scarcely be heard. Shiro’s hand squeezes his.

“I-I know. I know, I... shouldn’t have been so harsh. I was scared, too, I just snapped. Of course you were scared, baby. Believe it or not I know what being pinned down by a bunch of debris is like,” he attempts to make a crappy mortality joke and Keith is half tempted to surge up out of bed and kiss those words right out of Shiro’s mouth and his memory. Instead, he continues to let his tears fall until there simply isn’t any left. Shiro dries them with his fingers, finally warm as he looks down at Keith.

“I feel like an idiot,” Keith says, in all his wisdom. It draws a weary laugh out of Shiro, who strokes his thumb along the ridges of Keith’s knuckles.

“You’re not an idiot. Not for crying, anyway. Letting that shed get as bad as it was? Maybe. But we... should talk about what this means for our money.”

Keith sobers up and he frowns deeply. A headache creeps in from behind his eyes.

“No Christmas this year, huh?” he asks, and he means it as a joke. Shiro’s silence is deafening. Softly, “We’ll make it work, darlin’.”

“The ambulance ride alone is going to be steep,” Shiro sighs. “Uh... I’ll take extra hours at the club and switch to fulltime early, this winter. This is going to empty our savings account again.”

He sounds deflated. Keith weakly squeezes his hand.

“I think Hunk could get the heater fixed in your jeep an’ he won’t charge us for it if I give him another basket o’ those apples he likes. But that’s another bushel we won’t be able to put up at the market,” Keith thinks aloud. He tries to lift his right arm to scratch at the top of his head but he stops, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “Ouch.”

“You’re going to be out of commission for weeks with that arm. You’re on a ten pound weight restriction until October.”

“You can’t be on fulltime hours _and_ run the farm, Shiro.”

“What choice do we have?”

Keith looks up at Shiro, both of their expressions severe and pinched.

“I’ll do everything I can. And... we have Mom ‘n Dad. An’ the Marmora, they’d probably be willin’ to help. They’re family. We’re not alone.”

Shiro’s eyes shine as he lifts Keith’s hand and kisses his knuckles.

“We’ll get through this,” Shiro assures him, and Keith gives a faint nod in agreement. He shuts his eyes as Shiro leans in closer, sighs into the kiss Shiro ghosts against his lips. “...But I’m burning that shed down.”

“Mm,” Keith chuckles and turns his head away, escaping Shiro’s lips and smiling a little as he’s chased and given another kiss on the side of his mouth.

“We’re a team, Keith. Something like this isn’t going to make me leave. What is it that you say to me all the time? I’m gonna marry you? All of you?”

The extra reassurance brings the tightness back to Keith’s throat. He swallows thickly and looks up at Shiro with a quivering chin, but his lips are pulled up in a tight smile that’s reflected in his eyes. He gives a single nod.

“For better or for worse.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find [buffshiro](https://twitter.com/buffshiro)'s Yeehaw AU on twitter here.
> 
> [You can find me and all the other ways I like to make boys cry on twitter here.](https://twitter.com/inkweaving)


End file.
